


You Will Be Found

by FantasticFloofies



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M, dear evan hansen alternate universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 15:52:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19337701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasticFloofies/pseuds/FantasticFloofies
Summary: [Dear Evan Hansen Hogwarts AU]A disastrous encounter with Death Eaters and an arm encased in a cast later, Eden Hale returns to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Hoping to keep her head down and lay low as she did every other year, combats with the will to please her single mother Madam Pomfrey, her makeshift therapist. "Branching out and not avoiding people," psssh since when did that ever work out? But when an assignment from her healer is exposed to Hadley Potter, the "Junior Death Eater" of the school, Eden's seventh year spirals into a tornado of lies and regrets. The only thing Eden hopes is that maybe the famous sixth year, James Potter, will join along for the ride.





	1. Chapter 1

⋆✧✢☆——————☆✢✧⋆

CAST !

☆

𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐀 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄

as 𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐄

( the nerdy loser ) 

𝐍𝐀𝐎𝐌𝐈 𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐓𝐓 

as 𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐘 𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

( the junior death eater )

𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐉 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐀

as 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

( the perfect prankster ) 

 

ALSO STARRING:

✢

𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐊𝐀 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇 as 𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀 𝐒𝐋𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍

𝐉𝐔𝐍 𝐉𝐈 𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍 as 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐀 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊

𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐀 𝐁𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐎 as 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐀 𝐆Ó𝐌𝐄𝐙

—————

I make my quiet, unnoticed exit, walking out of Hogwarts’ walls for the last time.

The sadness will last forever, right? Van Gogh said that in his note. I read a book about all the famous ones over the summer holiday at the library in the small Muggle town, just across the bridge from Godric’s Hollow. Ernest Hemingway, Marilyn Monroe, Virginia Woolf, Evelyn McHale, Sylvia Plath, Socrates, and Vincent Van Gogh. I’m not comparing myself—trust me, me ego isn't that big. James’s hair is though. Those people actually made an impact on society at large, even the magical one. I haven't done anything near impactful. I couldn't even write a bloody note to my parents.

Lasting forever is a rather good way to paint it. ( Wow, even in this cynical monologue I find time for puns. ) You feel yourself stretching out, like day after day, you seem immortal—the opposite of what you hope to be, each day lasting longer and longer. The redundancy and length of it all gets to be too much. Even for the stars in the sky. A Starry Night captures the beauty and mystery of those sprinkles of light, but even painted stars fade over time. The excitement of lasting forever stealing their light. At some point they fizzle out or explode from living their long days, servicing humanity by sprinkling light and hope into the abyss of the night. But when you look at the sky, you don't see it that way because the community of stars are so far away and looks similar night after night. You think the lot of the stars are still there, however some aren't, some are already gone by the time you think to find them. Long gone, returning to the tenebrosity from which they were born, and I suppose I am too.

My name was the last thing I wrote. I wrote my name, that my own brother couldn't stand to use in my vicinity, on another kid’s cast. I wrote on her cast like Muggles do in primary school. I remember going out beyond the borders of Godric’s Hollow with my younger brother and playing with the Muggle kids. Signing their casts. My name on scratchy plaster wasn't quite a goodbye note. But hey, I made my little mark, even if it was on a broken limb. Seems about right that my last words, my last mark, my last sign of life was my name in all capital letters, scribbled onto a cast of a girl I didn’t talk to for six years until I hexed her into a wall. Poetic, if you think about it. And thinking is about all I can do right now.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> notes at end

**Dear Eden Hale,**

 

That’s how all letters begin, even my weird pep talk ones. First you write the word _Dear_ , because that’s what you write at the top of any letter. That’s the standard formal and polite introduction my parents taught me. Everyone’s mum and dad taught them that before they write their first letter to their friends or grandma before handing the envelope to the family owl, right? After the _Dear,_ comes the name of the person to whom you’re writing, or else anyone could think it’s for them and that would end up a disaster. In this circumstance, I’m writing to myself. So, I scribble, _Eden Hale_ on a scrap of last year's parchment.

    Mack is actually my first name. My mum wanted my name to be Eden and my dad wanted me to be Mack, which is the closest girl name to Mark, which is his name. My dad won the short battle, according to my Muggle birth certificate and my magical paperwork in the Ministry of Magic, but my mum won the war. She has never called me by my first name, only Eden. As a result, neither has my dad. ( Spoiler alert: My parents are divorced. More on that lovely tale later. )

    I’m only Mack on my driver’s license ( which I never use because hey, I’m a witch, so I like to tell myself it’s a useless piece of plastic turtles are going to choke on if I throw it away. ), or when I fill out my job applications for after my seventh year in school, or when I took my O.W.L.s in fifth year ( and when I take my N.E.W.T.s this year ), or when it’s the first day of school ( because Hogwarts happens to have an issue with keeping their Defense Against the Dark Arts professors in their position ), like it is today. The new Defense professor will call out “Mack,” and I will have to have an uncomfortable conversation with them to ask whoever it might be this year to please call me by my middle name—After everyone has left the room because I don't need more critical eyes staring into the back of my ginger head.

    If it's not too hard to believe, a lot of things rattle my anxious, homebody brain. One of those things is my initials because I’m a picky bimbo—not that I’m calling myself attractive. Merely making a statement on how I feel about my academic prowess. My initials are M.E.H. for the love of Rowena Ravenclaw how much do my parents hate me? M.E.H., like the word: _meh_ is a shoulder shrug at best. It also is a pretty good word to capitulate the reaction I get from society at large, be it the Muggle society, or the magic one. As opposed to the shock of the uttering of _oh_ ( when James Potter, Sirius Black, and their two other friends that are basically kings at school even though they’re still in sixth year, held up Severus Snape by his ankle last spring. ) Or the wow of _ah_ ( the reaction Lily Evans gets if she even walks past the aforementioned king, James Potter. ) Or the hesitation of breathing out _uh_ ( the reaction of the other poor student when we have to pair up in class and I’m the only one left with whom to pair up. ) Or the discombobulation of _huh_ ( like the reaction of Sirius Black when a girl says “no” to him. ) _Meh_ is just indifference. Mack Eden Hale illustrates the human embodiment of a shoulder shrug. _Meh._

My mum says I’m a real Pisces, and maybe that means I’m difficult to live with, I don’t know. She also wouldn't know since she's never home. The symbol of Pisces is two fish tied together with a ribbon trying to swim in opposite directions. Two fish? It isn’t even something interesting like the Giant Squid in the Black Lake. Anyway, my mum is into all that astrology bullshit and she always has been, so, naturally, she is the Divination professor at Hogwarts. She gets the house elves that work at Hogwarts to leave me her handwritten messages by my bed, saying things like: _Step outside of your comfort zone_ . Or she “strategically” inserts them into our daily conversations. _A business venture with a friend looks promising._ I swear she reads those horoscopes people write for Muggles. I think it’s all nonsense but I suppose they give her hope and guidance in this time of strife, which is what my letters are supposed to give me—not that they do, let's be completely transparent.

    Speaking of those blasted letters. After the polite greeting of _Dear_ comes the actual difficult part of the letter: the body. My first line is the same as usual, because the anxiety in me loves consistency.

   

    **Today is going to be an amazing day, and here’s why.**

 

    The basic concept behind this letter-writing assignment is that if I try to magic up a positive outlook on life and the day ahead, I will create that positive experience for myself.

    I tried to skive it off at first. I told Madam Pomfrey, “I don’t think a letter to myself is going to help as I wouldn’t even know what to write.”

    She jumped up to tend a kid who was hit in the head by a bludger, “You don’t have to know. That’s the whole point. To explore your creativity and the idea of a great day. For starters, you could lead with something like, ‘Today is going to be an amazing day, and here’s why.’ Then add on from that simple statement.”

    Sometimes I feel like therapy is as much of a farce as horoscopes and other times I think the real problem with my lack of progress is that I can never get myself to fully believe that it will do any good.

    After thinking through it all, I didn't just end up taking her advice, I followed through to verbatim. It’s just one less thing to have to worry about anyway because the rest of the letter is trickier than one might think ( I would know, I happen to do a lot of that: thinking. ) The first line is just an opening statement, like any essay you write. You have an opening thesis that you now have to prove. In this case, I have to prove _why_ today is going to be an amazing day when all evidence suggests otherwise. Proving the opening statement means putting it into actuality. Every day that came before today was not amazing, far from it, so why would I trick my brain into the false mindset of thinking today would be any different?

    You want to know the truth? I don’t think it’s going to be an amazing day (I know, wow ), so it’s time to power up my imagination, make sure that every single molecule of creativity and academia is wide awake in my groggy mind and pitching in to help the process. ( It takes a magically conjured village to write a _decent_ pep talk, let alone an _amazing_ one. )

 

    **Because today all you have to do is just be yourself, but also confident. That’s also important, but also interesting, and easy to talk to. Approachable, but don’t hide, either. Reveal yourself to others, not in a pervy way, don’t take off your robe. Just be you—the true you. Be yourself. Be true to yourself. Be the kid mum and Madam Pomfrey want you to be. Also, you use correct bloody grammar, something this letter isn’t displaying well.**

  


    What does the “true me” even mean, you ask? Well, strap yourself in for the ride because I've been trying to figure that out since April. It sounds like one of those faux-philosophical lines said in French you’d hear in a black-and-white cologne commercial for Muggles. Let's be honest- I’m no Socrates, and Aristotle is out of my league. If I’m going to be so concerned about being judged myself, let’s not make ourselves hypocrites by doing the aforementioned judging. As Madam Pomfrey would say, we’re here to explore ourselves and put our best foot forward.

    Now, what are we exploring about? Our true selves. Like we're some picture book explaining personality traits to primary school kids Let's assume this “true” me is better at life as a whole. Better at understanding and dealing with people and less timid about it too. For instance, I bet this true me, the perfect me never would’ve missed out up on the chance to introduce herself to James Potter at the Quidditch Final last year. She wouldn’t have spent all the time she could've spent talking to him be deciding which word best captured her feelings about his performance but also didn’t make her come off like a stalker— _good, great, the Dog’s bollocks, brilliant, blinding, solid_ —and then, after finally settling on _quite good_ , end up not speaking to him at all because she was too busy obsessing over whether her hands were sweaty. What difference did it make that her hands were sweaty? This isn't Arithmancy. It’s not like he would’ve demanded to shake her hand—well that might be something he would do. Knowing his general personality. Anyway, if anything, it was probably _his_ hands that were sweaty after all that Quaffle throwing. Besides, my hands got sweaty after I think about them getting sweaty, so if anything I _made_ them get sweatier, and obviously this “true,” perfect, normal Eden would never do something so depressingly sad.

    I’m doing it again, making my hands get sweaty. I’m really not cut out for this whole thinking thing. Now I have to dry my quill, and I just dripped ink on my parchment. Now my arm is sweating too. The sweat will end up under my cast, and no air is getting in, and soon enough my cast will take on that smell from all that multiplying bacteria, the kind of smell I don't want anyone at school to catch even the slightest malodorous whiff of, especially on the first day of my seventh year. Sod off, fake Eden Hale. You really are exhausting.

    Take a deep, albeit shaky, breath.

    I reach into my desk drawer and pull out a small vial of calming potion. I already took my anxiety potion this morning because I really want _that_ mess to sort itself out, but Madam Pomfrey says it’s alright to take a calming potion, too, if things get really overwhelming. I swallow a gulp of the calming potion, magical solace on its way.

    That’s the issue with writing these letters. I start off on a direct route ( hopefully to a good place like Diagon Alley ), but I always end up taking detours, wandering into the dodgy Knockturn Alleys of my brain where nothing good or productive ever happens.

    “So you just decided not to eat last night?”

    It’s my mom, standing at my doorway, holding the ten-pound note I didn't use.

    I roll up my parchment and shove it in the front pocket of my sweatshirt. “I wasn't hungry.”

    “Come on, honey. You need to be able to order dinner for yourself while I’m at Hogwarts at the end of holidays. You can do it all in a ring now too. You don't have to talk to anyone face-to-face.”

    But that's not true. ( Despite my mum being a teacher, she's not the brightest when it comes to the Muggle way of doing things. ) You have to talk to the delivery person when they come to the door. You have to stand there while they make change and they always pretend like they don't have enough single pound coins, so you're forced to decide on the spot whether to tip less or more than you first planned, and if you tip less, you know they'll curse you under their breath as they walk away ( And Muggles happen to be quite colourful in their use of the English lexicon from personal experience. ), so you just tip them extra and you end up poor. Even though I really only use Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts at this point, but after dad left we try to save up.

    “My apologies,” I say.

    “Don’t be sorry. Just remember that this is what we're working towards with Pop—Madam Pomfrey. Engage, don't avoid.”

    I understand the concept already. I’ve already monologued and wrote about that whole concept. I don't need repetition. This isn't the memorization of facts for final exams or the memorization of potion recipes. It’s like the sweaty-hand thing: the more you acknowledge the problem, the worse it gets until you just are dripping in sweat and we can establish now that I am most definitely not the athletic type so that’s not a valid excuse. The more I’m forced to engage, the more my brain tries to avoid.

    Now she's circling my bed like a hippogriff searching for something to pounce upon. Maybe she’s searching for a new answer to the great Eden debacle that may be waiting on my dresser or hanging on my wall that she can finally find if she looks hard enough because a simple _Accio_ hasn’t quite worked like one would imagine. But believe me, considering how much time I spent in this room, if the answer were here, I would have found it already.

    I slide my legs off the bed and pull on my Converse trainers.

    “Speaking of Madam Pomfrey,” she says. “I wrote her this morning and you have an appointment with her after your last class tomorrow.”

    “Tomorrow? Why? I’m seeing her after class next week.”

    “I know,” she says, staring down at the tenner in her hands. “But I thought maybe you could use something a little sooner. You know, to help ease into everything.”

    An appointment just because I chose to skip dinner? I mean, the whole “ease” thing is probably bullshit. I should have just nicked the money so she wouldn’t have known, but that would be stealing from her, and karma’s a wanker.

    Maybe it’s more than just the unused, lonesome tenner. Maybe I’m giving off an extra-worrisome aura of which I am unaware. As a Divination professor, she would know. I stand up and study myself in the mirror. I try to see what problem she sees. Everything looks to be normal. Hoodie strings aligned at the same length, hair tamed by slicking it back in a bun. I even took a shower last night. ( Wow, gold star for Eden Hale. ) But in all seriousness, I haven’t been taking as many showers lately because it’s such a pain to have to cover my cast. Even though I could just magically cover it because I’m seventeen, my mum is really into “doing things the Muggle way.” ( Mum says it’s so we can appreciate them doing everything by hand, but I think it’s so we don’t scare away my dad anymore, so I can have a relationship with him. ) First I have to cover my cast with plastic wrap, then the shopping bag and duct tape. It’s not like I get dirty anyway. Ever since breaking my arm, I basically quarantine myself in my room all day. Besides, nobody at Hogwarts will be paying attention to how I look. They barely pay attention to my name.

    There’s something else I’m doing that is being broadcasted by the mirror. I’m fidgeting with my quill. I’ve been tapping is back and forth between my pinky finger and the space between my thumb and forefinger this whole time. As you might’ve picked up on, I’m trying to tell the truth. And I’ve been dreading going back to school for weeks. Sure, I sometimes go to Hogwarts over the holiday with my mum to help the house elves, but after the safe isolation of summer holiday, returning to school always feels like sensory overload and just a panic attack waiting to happen.

    Watching friends reunite with their hugs that look more like an arm wrestle that no one is trying to win an those high-pitched screeches girls make when they see their friends that they probably saw a week ago. The groups of people collecting in each train compartment as if all cliques had been notified in advance where to meet. Bent-over laughter at what must have been the funniest joke ever told. I can navigate my way through all that because it’s familiar to me now.

    After six years of figuring out the secret language of teenagers I make my way through the labyrinth of the train ride. It’s the stuff I can’t predict that concerns me. I barely had a grasp on the way things were last year, and now there will be so much newness to absorb. New siblings being sorted. New Quidditch teams. New piercings and tattoos. New couples every week thanks to Marlene McKinnon and Sirius Black. Higher difficulty in N.E.W.T classes. News on the whole You-Know-Who situation and Death Eater recruits. So much change, and everyone just marches on like nothing’s different. However, I am clearly not everyone.

    The back of my mum is also visible in my mirror, her bun not nearly and kempt and neat as mine, the tip of her personalized wand handle sticking from her pocket. ( Over the years, I’ve improved upon many crummy gifts—mugs, quills, bags—by simply using a sticking charm to apply _Mum_ or _Heidi_ or _Professor Hale_ on there somewhere. ) Poking around my messy room in her robe, she looks more like an Auror than a professor. A very tired Auror who is just collecting data from the scene of another Death Eater attack. She was always the “young mum,” because she had me right after she graduated from Hogwarts, but I’m sure the title “Professor Hale” applies much better. After teaching classes year round then running around for the Order of the Phoenix this summer, she has this impenetrable fatigue in her eyes that can’t seem to be cured with getting a good night’s rest.

    “What happened to your push pins?” She queries.

    I turn and face the world map on the light blue wall. When I started working at the Muggle zoo a few kilometers from here and helping out Hagrid with his creatures this summer, I got the idea of trying to go to all the best zoos and magical habitats in the world: San Diego Zoo in California; dragons in Romania; Singapore Zoo in Singapore; thunderbirds in the Arizona desert; Chester Zoo in Upton-by-Chesire, England. I had them all marked out on my map with different colored pins. However, after how the holiday ended, I decided to take them all down. Except one pin. The one mum never wants to talk about, so I wonder why she’s bringing it up.

    “I thought I’d focus on one at a time,” I say. “The first one I’m hoping to visit is Taronga first. I know it’s a Muggle zoo, but you never know what time of magical creatures are over there.”

    “And that’s in Sydney, Australia?” my mum asks.

    She can see it on the map quite clearly, but still, she needs confirmation. “Yes.”

    The breath she takes is painfully fake and empathy inducing. Sydney is where my dad lives. _Dad_ is a word you have to be careful about using in our house, and the same goes for any word that reminds you of my dad like _Mark_ , _Mack_ or,any combination of _Sydney, Australia_. ( There are many options for forbidden words here, but conciseness is a good trait so let’s move on. )

    Mum turns away from the map and looks at me with a face that is meant to be brazenly carefree but still looks exactly the opposite of those two adjectives. She's figuratively hexed into a wall but still standing. That makes two of us, I suppose. “I'll find you right after your last class tomorrow,” she says. “Have you been writing those letters Madam Pomfrey wants you to do? You really have to keep up with those, Eden.”

    I used to write a letter every single day at the end of sixth year, but over the summer holiday I skived off. ( Just like I warned Madam Poomfrey I would do, honestly. )  I’m pretty sure Madam Pomfrey told my mum, which is why she's been nagging me about them. “I was just working on one,” I tell her, a sigh of relief pushing itself free from not having to lie.

    “Good. Madam Pomfrey is going to want to see it."

    "I know. I'll finish it at the library during my free period tomorrow.”

    "Those letters are crucial, honey. They help you build your confidence, especially on the first and second day of school.”

    Ah, yes. Another clue for why she thought tomorrow in particular warranted a visit to Madam Pomfrey.

    “I don't want another year of you sitting in your dormitory alone every Friday night and every Quidditch match besides the final to which I drag you. You just have to find a way to put yourself out there.”

    I'm trying. It's not like I'm not trying. I just can’t.

    She spots something that piques her interest on my desk. "Hey, I know." She takes a Sharpie from the cup. ( Of all the colors, why did she have to pick out avocado green? ) "Why don't you ask the other kids to sign your cast on the train? That would be the perfect conversation starter, wouldn't it.”

    I can't think of anything worse. Not only is that strictly a Muggle thing, it's like begging for friends. Maybe I should find a skeletally thin pygmy puff to sit in the corner with me, really rack up the sympathy points, since I can’t rack up points for Ravenclaw.

    It’s too late to argue. She's right up in my face that probably isn’t displaying a particularly nice expression .“Eden.”

    “Mum, I can't do that.”

    She presents the Sharpie like a trophy. “Seize the day. Today is the day to seize the day.”

    This sounds like a Muggle horoscope. “You don't have to add ‘today.’ ‘Seize the day’ already means ‘seize today.’”

    “Whatever. I’m just saying, go get ‘em, eh?”

    Not taking my eyes off my shoes, I reluctantly pluck a black Sharpie from the cup. “Eh.”

    She heads for the door, and just when I think I'm in the clear, she turns with a half, struggling smile. “I'm proud of you already.”

    “Oh. Brilliant.”

    Her smile sags a bit, but she walks off.

    What am I supposed to say? She tells me she's proud, but her eyes tell a different story—the true story. She ponders me like I'm an ink blot on her parchment she can't get rid of no matter what spell she uses. Proud of me? I don't see how that's possible, so let's just keep lying to each other. We seem to be awfully good at it.

    It's not like a totally mind the sessions with Madam Pomfrey. Sure, our conversations are scheduled, inorganic, and typically one-sided, but there's some comfort in sitting down and talking with another human being. You know, besides my mum, who’s so busy with classes and students that she's hardly ever around and who never quite hears what I'm saying even when she's listening ( and is also my mum. ) I write my dad every once in a while, on the few occasions where I have news worth sharing. So like twice a year. But he says pretty busy. The only issue with talking to Madam Pomfrey is I’m rubbish at it. I assume that's why she wants me to write these letters to myself. She told me it might be a better way of expressing my feelings and could also help me learn to be a little easier on myself, but I’m pretty sure it makes things easier for her more than they do so for me.

    I take out the now crumpled parchment from the pocket of my Holyhead Harpies Quidditch sweatshirt and scan what I’ve written so far.

 

    **Dear Eden Hale,**

 

    Sometimes these letters do the opposite of what they're intended to do. They're supposed to keep my goblet of pumpkin juice half full, but they also remind me that I’m not like everyone else. No one else at my school has an assignment from the nurse acting pretending to be a makeshift therapist. No one else even has to use Madam Pomfrey as a therapist, probably. They don't drink calming potions like pumpkin juice. They don't shift and flick their hand down to get a hold in their wand when people come to close to them, or talk to them, or even look at them. And they definitely don't make their mother's eyes well up with tears when they're just sitting there not doing anything. Their mother’s eyes don’t well up _because_ they’re doing nothing.

    I don't need reminding. I know I'm not normal. Believe me, I know. With six years of reflection and the front of brutal ignorance, I know.

    _Today is going to be an amazing day._

    I suppose anything is possible the best chance for that is if I just stay here in my bedroom, then it might actually come true.

    _Just be yourself._

    Yeah. Sure. Okay. Easier said than done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed

**Author's Note:**

> ᵃˡˡ ᶜʳᵉᵈⁱᵗ ᵍᵒᵉˢ ᵗᵒ ⱽᵃˡ ᴱᵐᵐⁱᶜʰ, ˢᵗᵉᵛᵉⁿ ᴸᵉᵛᵉⁿˢᵒⁿ, ᴮᵉⁿʲ ᴾᵃˢᵉᵏ, ᴶᵘˢᵗⁱⁿ ᴾᵃᵘˡ, ᵃⁿᵈ ᴶ.ᴷ. ᴿᵒʷˡⁱⁿᵍ. ᴵ ᵒⁿˡʸ ᶜʳᵉᵃᵗᵉᵈ ᵐʸ ᵒ.ᶜ.ˢ.


End file.
